Nevermore to Go Astray
by Riddelly
Summary: Post-Reichenbach. Sebastian Moran is done playing the idiot. /Anderson!Moran, three-shot/
1. Chapter 1

**A/N** _There was a photoset on Tumblr a few months ago that gave me the idea of Anderson as Moran- it's pretty far-fetched, but the more I thought about it, the more I decided I liked it. _

**Rated T** _for language, violence, and drug/alcohol use_

**Disclaimer** _I don't own Sherlock or any associated characters, events, etc._

* * *

_The jig is up, the news is out, they've finally found me_  
_The renegade who had it made retrieved for a bounty_  
_Nevermore to go astray_  
_This will be the end today of the wanted man_

* * *

i.

The first thing that Sebastian Moran thinks, upon discovering the corpse of his boss on the roof, is _God, Jim, you really fucked up this time. _

James Moriarty does not look smaller in death, perhaps because he was always a diminutive sort. Even in life, the imposing air to him didn't alter Moran's perception of his height. He didn't _have _to be tall to be impressive—that was the sort of thing about him that was so fascinating. A small, prissy-looking Irishman with wide puppy eyes and manicured nails. The world's foremost criminal and mad genius.

Dead, now.

He's paler, that's for sure. A dark pool of blood is already drying into the cold grey surface of the roof behind him, even as it continues to stream steadily from an invisible wound somewhere in the midst of his neatly combed ebony hair. The red stain reflects that on the sidewalk several stories below, the one that people are gathered around—staring, crying out, fussing over.

Moran bends down on one knee, swearing under his breath. Everyone cares about the supposed suicide of Sherlock Holmes. Nobody gives a fuck about James Moriarty, the one who wasn't _supposed _to die.

_It wasn't part of the goddamn plan!_

Part of him wants to scream it, to throw his head back and bellow it to the unrelenting smoggy sky, but he doesn't, because he's a professional, he's a trained man and he's not going to dissolve into little bits of fucking fluff because of a dead body.

Instead, he gives himself thirty seconds—thirty seconds, each ticked off carefully in his head—to kneel there, to stare at Jim's frozen face and wonder why the hell it had to turn out this way.

Holmes was supposed to be the one to die. That was the whole damn plan. He was looking forward to it—the man was insufferable. He deserved death. Maybe Jim deserved death, too, but he wasn't ready for it, none of them were ready for it.

And perhaps the worst part is that he did it his own bloody self. The two things that Moran knows best in the world are guns and Jim, and everything about both is screaming that Sherlock wasn't the one to fire the shot. No, the detective did exactly what he was supposed to—pitched himself off the roof.

Jim screwed up. God knows what he did, but he's dead now, and Moran's not sentimental, he's not going to kid himself and say that he's coming back, ever.

Thirty-two seconds. He's getting lazy. He grits his teeth down, hard, and takes a long, chilling breath of air. It's cold up here on the rooftop, even under his jacket. He runs his fingers over each other, trying to spark some sort of warmth, then reaches forward and tucks one arm underneath Jim's shoulder. The corpse hasn't started to stiffen yet—it's still warm, still limp, and if he closes his eyes for a moment, he can almost imagine that he's not even really dead—but, _fuck, _he's not going to be sentimental, not now.

Hell, he doesn't even feel sad. It's pretty damn pathetic, really, because the only sensation inside of him is a blank wondering of _what next? _Jim is what he's been staying alive for, and he realizes that now with the vague sensation of a punch in his stomach. _You idiot. _He prides himself in taking every possible circumstance into consideration, in _always being prepared. _This, though—he never thought, not once, of what he'd do if James Moriarty died. And that's how he's become so damn dependent on him, he figures.

_You're a fucking idiot, Sebastian Moran._

Jim is light, alarmingly light even for his height and shape, and he almost overshoots, only just managing to swing the body over his shoulder. He rises almost effortlessly, and wonders if anyone can see the roof—if anyone would care, even if they did. The country's shiniest prize is broken on the pavement—he can already see the headlines in his mind; _BRILLIANT DETECTIVE INEXPLICABLY JUMPS TO HIS DEATH_—and it's irrelevant that his enemy, the force behind the entire modern world of crime, is also dead, even more bloody _inexplicably. _

Part of him wants to pitch the corpse over the edge of the body, onto the pavement. To watch it hit the ground, watch the shocked faces of bystanders, hear their shrieks. See what the press would make of that. Chances are that nobody would even recognize his face. Nobody ever saw it, after all. It was the three of them, really, who knew the truth behind him—Sherlock Holmes, John Watson, and Sebastian Moran.

Watson probably thinks that he's alone. That everyone who ever knew the truth about the rivalry between Holmes and Moriarty is dead. But he's wrong. The truth is that he, Sebastian Moran, is the only one who ever knew a hundred percent of the conflict and everything behind it. And he'll have to keep it that way.

So he needs to take Jim somewhere else. Bury him. Burn him. Something in private, that won't bring in suspicion. Hell, he could probably throw him in a dumpster and the police would just write him down as another John Doe.

The police are bloody idiots. He knows that far too well at this point.

Taking a heavy breath, he turns, begins to pace back across the roof. There's still a bloodstain, but nobody will be up here to notice it. Nobody would think twice about it when they did. They'd think that a bird hit the roof or some bullshit. People look for every excuse to avoid the truth, he's learned, and they'll probably do that with Holmes, too, just think it was some sort of tragic suicide. Not look at how he'd never kill himself, how external forces were clearly at work.

Of course, Jim knew that. He was clever. He knew how peoples' minds operated.

Past tense. It feels foreign.

St. Bart's hospital feels empty as Moran traipses through it—not a single bloody person to notice that he's got a damned corpse slung over his back. He only goes through one echoingly uninhabited hallway before finding a back door—the fucking alarm doesn't even work when he shoves through it.

There's a massive trash bin outside. He stares at it for several long moments, considering his options. What else is there to do? Maybe Jim would have wanted glamour, but he never asked for any particular method of disposing his body, and he might as well pay for that now.

They won't care, will they? It won't mean anything. Even if they do find him, and even if they do somehow figure out who he is, it won't matter, it _won't bloody matter. _Because there's nothing they can do. If the coroners know anything, they'll be able to see that this is a suicide, and they're probably not going to publicize it. There are no family members that they can contact. So they'll seal his body up, destroy it in whatever method they see fit.

Moran sees no reason to be more attached to the body. It doesn't hold anything, not anymore.

So he slips it quietly into the dumpster. He's not grand about it, not dramatic, and he doesn't linger. Just tips up the lid, drops the body inside, listens to the blank thud as it hits the bottom.

That's it, then.

He doesn't leave quite yet, though—he takes a few brief seconds to unsheathe a cigarette from the case in his pocket, flick on a lighter and ignite the end. It smolders slightly, and he brings it to his lips, taking a long drag, letting the spicy warmth course through his lungs. He doesn't kid himself that it's pleasant. It smells and tastes like shit, like it always does, but it also invigorates him, and he feels better with it clenched between his teeth, as he adjusts the rifle on his back and starts back down the alleyway leading off of the hospital. His shoulders feel empty without a rifle strapped across them, but Jim requested specifically that he be unarmed for this.

_"There are others doing the work this time, darling. Give yourself some time off." _

Time off. Bullshit.

He'll stop back home first, he decides, at their flat—his flat, now. Catch his breath. Make a plan. Plans are good—they get him through everything, every heartbeat, every footstep.

And then he'll go to Scotland Yard, assuming that the place isn't completely blown up over the loss of its precious consulting detective—they won't be able to function at all without him, Moran realizes with a dry sort of amusement. They're going to be even more lost than they usually are.

But that's what he'll do, yes. Stop by the Yard, tell them what he needs to. And then he'll figure it all out from there. His next goals. There might be someone else to work for, or otherwise he can be on his own for a while, determine his own assignments. The corner of his mouth quirks bitterly at the thought. How long—how many years has it been since he's been able to choose who he kills of his own will?

_Too long _is the decision he reaches, tipping his head down, tucking his hands into his pockets and striding down the shadowy alleyway as if he hasn't just dumped a corpse behind him, the corpse of his boss, his mentor, his idol, his only goddamn friend.

* * *

It's a clean quarter hour later that he's pulled on the cleanest suit he can find, combed out his hair and screwed his face effectively into the permanently disgusted expression that the Yard is used to seeing. He's stepping into the building, and barely gets a second glance from anyone within—as expected, the place is as calm and unknowing as always. He doesn't have to fake the smirk that curls the edges of his thin lips as he strides along, glancing at the cubicles he passes by. They're ignorant right now. They've heard that there's been a suicide, probably, but they don't know who the victim was, not yet. Not all of them would even recognize the name upon hearing it, but he's headed for a specific office this time, for a specific grey-haired Detective Inspector, and he can't help but feel a twitch of anticipation at how Lestrade's going to react to Holmes's death. He'll be upset, distraught, guilt-wracked. It will be beautiful.

_You're not thinking like yourself. Jim taught you that. How to appreciate the sorrow in others' eyes. _

Pathetic—he is really and truly pathetic, to be thinking like this, to be poeticizing everything just because his far too thoughtful superior is gone. Sebastian Moran is not a flowery-speaking man, nor is he a deeply thinking one. That's not to say he isn't smart, because he _is _smart—much smarter than Holmes or the others ever could have anticipated. Clever enough to stay alive with half of the government in the world after him—to work for the bloody _police force, _at that.

Hopefully Lestrade hasn't heard yet. He wants to be the one to deliver the words. To see the darkening of the older man's eyes, watch him crumple.

Nobody tries to stop him as he moves towards the office. Good. He knows how to do that, too—to balance his figure the right way to project a sense of authority, to somehow force them all to think that he's something he's not. Or perhaps something he is, but not under this disguise, not as a forensics worker for Scotland Yard.

Disguise. It's all a disguise. It's all ever been a disguise, and the idiots haven't noticed. They have no idea that he's the very same Colonel Sebastian Moran who's committed far too many globally mourned assassinations, who was imprisoned for three years before escaping quietly, a fact that slipped under the news—they know he's on the loose; he's even seen his face tacked to a few of their 'most wanted' boards. They never notice it, though. He's done a bit of surgery—nothing huge, but Jim required it, insisting that he wouldn't have such a recognizable person working for him, the master of undercover operation. That, in addition to dyed hair and rather painful tattoo removal, was enough to render him similar but not identical to the Sebastian Moran on all the posters.

Lestrade's door is open. Moran schools his features carefully—he wishes he could laugh, could express the bitter, vengeful glee that's simmering up inside of him, but he's honestly not even sure if he can remember how to smile, and he manages without much effort to keep his expression blank, almost bored. He allows a hint of delighted relief to run underneath, but blended with guilt, shock, confusion—the carefully crafted emotions of the character he's playing. He is a good actor. A brilliant one. He's fooled Sherlock Holmes and the London police force several times, and that's no simple feat.

"Detective Inspector," he greets, forcing his lungs to move just a bit too quickly, lending the illusion of him being out of breath. He curls his fingers around the doorframe, leaning slightly. _Look. I'm exhausted. I've been hurrying to tell you. _

"Hm?" Lestrade's eyes flick up, wide and dark as always, and an almost visible curtain of boredom whisks across them as soon as he sees who's speaking to him. "Yes, what is it?"

"There's been a suicide. Off St. Bart's."

"So I've heard. Not really your department, is it? I heard there was a murder—"

"No—it was… it was Sherlock Holmes, sir." He has to resist sneering on the final syllable. _Sir. _He holds no respect for DI Lestrade—so intensely the opposite, in fact, that it almost hurts to voice the lie.

"What about him? Don't tell me he's on it, the last thing we need is more suicides that are actually serial killings," Lestrade groans, reaching up to massage his temples. He doesn't want this, of course. He's only just come in for the day. He has to deal with the court release of Jim Moriarty, with the suspicion Moran's carefully been planting about the validity of Sherlock's very person… he doesn't want to have to deal with a suicide right now. _Another _suicide, because they happen daily, in alarmingly high numbers. And what he wants even less is a murder made to look like a suicide, something to investigate rather than just clean up. He's a selfish man, but can't really be insulted for it. He only wants what any other human would—a simple way forward, something to do, a clear right and wrong.

"No, sir… Holmes didn't… investigate it." He has to fake the nasally tone to his voice, carefully flex his vocal cords and pull his nose into a delicate sneer to inflect it properly. British accent, too, instead of his natural Scottish. It's all very tedious, and it'll be nice once he stops—maybe he can abandon this job, now that Jim doesn't need the spy.

"What are you trying to say, then?"

Oh, he doesn't want to believe it. That's clear, in his face, in the way he folds his hands—subconsciously defensive. He does not, not, _not _want to hear that his pet detective is dead, and that's what makes it all the more rewarding as Moran speaks the words clearly, precisely, in a way that can't possibly be misinterpreted.

"Sherlock Holmes threw himself off the roof of St. Bartholomew's hospital. He killed himself."

"Oh, God, no," Lestrade mutters, raising a hand slowly to his forehead, covering his eyes, shaking his head. The words are spoken without hesitation, like he knew what was coming, but his voice is hollow, blank. "Oh, God… that bloody idiot. Of course he would. Of course he would."

"It could have been, sir," Moran ventures, "because people were beginning to discover the truth behind him… his fakery—"

"Please. Don't. Not now," Lestrade groans, peering through his fingers. There's a thickness to his voice, like he's punched right through the stage of denial, moved into grieving, like he's holding back _tears. _This is much more potent, much more personal of a reaction than Moran ever expected, and he can't deny that it makes him almost uncomfortable, causes the hair on his neck to rise slightly. He's lived isolated from emotions for so long that seeing them in other people feels foreign, like they're inhuman, _less _than human.

_That's Jim speaking in you, again. He knew that they were weaker than him. Than you. _

"He's really dead? You're entirely sure, it's not—it's not some _look-alike, _or—"

There it is. The denial. "Positive, sir. Dr. Watson was on the scene as well… he seemed rather distressed."

"John. Of course. I—hell." He shakes his head, slowly. "I suppose they're going to want me to come and take a look at it, then…"

"Not necessarily—it was only a suicide," he corrects, only going on now for the sake of maintaining the conversation, even though his use has expired. The news has been delivered, and that was it—Jim's last assignment to him.

_After it's over, go to the Yard. Tell Lestrade, or whatever stupid officer they have in charge, what happened. Savor the look on his face. _

He never questioned that, either—why Jim couldn't give him those instructions afterwards. Perhaps he assumed that it was because of the timing, because he didn't want to waste time in exchanging further directions before Moran notified Lestrade. There could have been a million motivations in that man's puzzle of a mind, but killing _himself _was never one that Moran expected.

"Yes, well—I'm going anyway. I _should _go. I—I need to see it for myself."

"Suit yourself."

"Oh, for God's sake," Lestrade mumbles, rising shakily to his feet. "You could at least act a bit more respectful now. You didn't like him, alright, we could all say that, but the man's _dead. _Cut him some slack."

"He died of cowardice." Every one of those words is utter and absolute truth. Sherlock Holmes was not a brave man—even if he wasn't truly a _lie, _even if that was a ploy of Moriarty's, it's still undeniable that he died in the end because he was too afraid. Too afraid to have his loved ones taken away from him, so that he threw away his own life—the most valuable thing in his world—instead.

Lestrade's voice and movements are stiff as he walks out of the room, holding the door open for Moran to leave. There are visible tears in his eyes, now, but they aren't spilling over the edge, and he acts as though they aren't even there.

"If you know what's good for you, you won't say another word against Sherlock Holmes in my presence. Good day, Mr. Anderson."


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N** _To make it entirely clear, I wasn't really trying to communicate the idea that Moriarty's body wouldn't be IDed at all, but rather that the police would have no way to respond to Richard Brook's unexplained suicide, and simply file him away without publicizing it. Sorry if that was unclear!_

**Thanks to** _GallifreyenCultOfSkaro and PurpleYin_

**Disclaimer** _I don't own Sherlock or any associated characters, events, etc._

* * *

ii.

Maybe the problem is that he expects to continue feeling this way. Numb, focused, determined. After all, he's never had actual _emotions _break through him in the past; there's no reason to start with that now.

But when he wakes up the next morning, memory is like a physical punch.

It starts slowly. He forces his eyes open against the glare of sunlight slanting through the blinds of his room, takes in the familiar sight of his bed, his gun rack, his bookshelf. He keeps a nice place, Moran does, and Jim always approved of it—they were both very neat men, both knew that cleanliness was a step towards efficiency, and efficiency was key.

He sits up in bed, slowly, and it's right at the high point of that, when his back straightens out and a hand raises to ruffle his hair absentmindedly, when he remembers.

He's alone, and there's nothing to do—for the first time in over five years, Sebastian Moran has woken up without a plan.

His teeth clench as a roll of sickness thuds through his stomach, and his breath hisses out. _What is he supposed to do? _Slowly, slowly, he stands up, forcing his body into its accustomed movements, convincing himself that if he does so, everything will slide into place, reality will click itself into its usual position and everything will be alright.

Because, suddenly, it _hurts like hell. _

Yesterday it didn't hurt. Not when he saw the body, not when he fucking chucked it into a goddamn dumpster. Hell, he was almost _laughing _by the time he was at the Yard.

But perhaps night has given a chance for the truth to sink in. Because he's aware now, distinctively and definitely, that he is alone in this world—that he has no leader, no friends, nobody who even _knows he's alive. _

Not a single person on the planet is aware of his existence.

Not including the Yard, of course, but they're stupid, and they only know the fake projection that he applies so easily in their presence—Anderson, the sneering, obnoxious forensics worker, the man that nobody can stand to be around, except for perhaps Sally Donovan on a particularly late night.

He decides in that moment that he can't work at the Yard any longer.

That's for damn sure. There's no point to it. Money is covered—he figures that he has all of Jim's wealth in his name, now—not that the consulting criminal ever felt the need to write a will, but there's really no one else who could possibly end up with his possessions. Yes, they belong to Moran. Undoubtedly. And with enough to pay the bills and buy himself food and beer to live off of, why have a job? Hell, he _does _have a job, a _real _job, and he doesn't need to stop that. He can keep finding clients, keep shooting down people who get in their way. Keep doing others' dirty work.

But he's done with Scotland Yard. Absolutely and permanently.

He wonders if it's even worth officially resigning. Perhaps he could just fade out into the background, ignore any of their attempts to contact him, be forgotten about. But, no, this is Scotland Yard, and even if they're not particularly _intelligent, _strictly speaking, they're clever enough to figure out that there's something unusual about his last appearance being that to announce the demise of his enemy.

_But does any of it matter anymore? Does any of it fucking matter? _

The pain hits him again, in a sharp, stabbing swell. He bites down on his tongue and lets his head fall forward into his hands as a bolt of agony dashes through it, just under the surface of his skull. And then he's stumbling sideways, crashing into the wall, and he keeps seeing the face behind the backs of his eyes, the dark stare, the pale skin, the constant smirk, the neat hair—_fuck, _why? Why does he have to be _gone? _And Moran doesn't even know why the hell it hurts so fucking badly. He wasn't attached to Jim Moriarty. Or at least he didn't think he was, but now there's this, and he has to contend with the fact that maybe he let it go overboard, began to _rely _on his boss as a constant in his life, and _fuck _that was a mistake and he wishes with everything that it would stop now, that he could drop all the pain and take a deep breath and start over, do this sensibly, like a person who actually deserves to life—

Hell. He doesn't even know what he's thinking at this point. But he needs to be more reasonable, needs to think straight. So, after heaving in a number of shallow, nauseous breaths, he stumbles over to the telephone, sitting on his bedside table alongside a simple lamp, its bulb currently dark and cold. A number of Post-It notes flock the wooden surface, each with a different essential number on them, and it doesn't take long to find his tall, slanted script, the name _Scotland Yard—Lestrade _scribbled down along with a series of digits which he frantically dials in.

It occurs to him at this point that he doesn't even know what time it is. Late, judging by the sunlight. Past nine, probably. His body betrayed him—let him sleep in over three hours after his usual rising time, probably to delay the realization, to allow him ignorant bliss just a little while longer.

_Fuck, he's gone. God fucking damn it to hell. _

The phone rings twice, then there's a click and a smoky London-accented voice—"Scotland Yard."

"Lestrade." His own voice is so fucking dry that it hurts, hurts his tongue and throat to say the simple name. It scratches as he continues, but he ignores the pain, just forces the words out. "It's Anderson. I'm done."

"What—Anderson from forensics? What do you mean, done?" He doesn't miss the sharpening of Lestrade's voice; the DI dislikes Moran's false character just as much as the rest of them, enough to grow a bit meaner just by default. Insufferable asshole.

"I mean I quit." He manages to force the nasally sneer into his cracked tone, making sure to tone his voice into Anderson's English accent. "I have better things to do than waste my time working with a police force who doesn't even appreciate me."

"Wait—hold on," and now he's getting alarmed, and his distress is almost satisfying, or at least close enough so that Moran's mouth curls up in the corner, a bitter, emotionless expression. "But—you can't do that, come on, we've only just lost Sherlock…" More and more formality is slipping from his tone by the second, until it all comes cascading down, and he's left breathless, desperate.

"Sherlock Holmes didn't even _work _for the Yard, Detective Inspector; are you implying that you can't operate without the assistance of an amateur?"

"Of course not, but listen—"

"I've had my share of listening. I'm done." He stares at the carpet in front of him. It's perfect—unstained white. His lips curl around his words. "Give my regards to Sergeant Donovan."

"Anderson," Lestrade tries again, but it's too late, because Moran doesn't care what he has to say—if he ever _did, _it stopped the second that James Moriarty decided to shoot himself in the mouth. He crushes his finger to the _end call _button, and then there's only silence in his ear, and he lets the phone drop, thud onto the ground.

_Give my regards to Sergeant Donovan. _He wonders if Sally will even care, even notice if he was gone. She hadn't liked him. Not on a personal level. But they'd… had their exchanges, more than once, and shared many of the same opinions, including the idea that Sherlock Holmes was nothing more than an arrogant bastard. He'd made her laugh, a couple of times, and she was almost enough to bring a smile to his lips on one or two occasions. Maybe that had been friendship—or the ghost of friendship, the only thing that Moran was really capable of feeling, after everything, after Jim.

He wonders if she will try and find him. If she cares enough for that.

She won't.

* * *

And she doesn't. A month passes. Two. He doesn't kill, doesn't seek out any jobs, just lives off of Jim's money and hopes that nobody will ever track him down for one reason or another. The flat grows progressively messier, the carpets never vacuumed, the surfaces never dusted, the appliances never scrubbed, until it's _dirty, _looks as repulsive as it smells. Moran's hair begins to grow out again, a hint of dark blonde brushing the edges of greasy black. He does the laundry, at least—that's _all _he does, really.

Well, almost all.

He cleans his guns.

That's how he fills the three months. Being as practiced as he is in the art of being a sniper, Sebastian Moran has no lack of guns. They're in every corner of the flat, some long and sleek, others short and stubby but none the less deadly. Some shine, some rust—black and silver and even pearl-hilted white. His treasures.

Also due to being so experienced, Sebastian Moran knows how to treat his guns. Like children. No, more precious than children, because children have minds, and they can operate on their own if it becomes essential. Guns, though—they're helpless without his strong hands to back them, tender, precious creatures. And he treats them appropriately, sitting on the couch hour after hour, day after day, week after week. Months. Months of the same dirty rag, the same jar of polish, running over every curve and groove, gently purifying the metal until it shines like a star. Each and every one of them.

He drinks, too, and smokes. They become rather constant, though, to the point where the consumption of smoke and alcohol is just as vital as that as air and water. More so, perhaps. The first few nights, he gets through more cigarettes than he can count, pulling each one down, savoring the burn of smoke inside of him. Of course he smoked before, but only casually; now it's a _sport, _a passion, and there's not a waking moment when he's not filled with the uplifting, dizzy buzz induced by their foully spiced exhaust. Well—there are some moments, but only a few, each morning when he wakes up on the couch and can't remember anything but the ferociously stabbing ache in his skull, when he can barely breathe and is nowhere near coherent thought until he reaches out, finds a bottle from last night that still has some dry splashes of his favorite poison in it, closes his eyes and downs it and waits for the edges of everything to soften, to let him move, let him pull another gun towards him, light another cigarette, change the TV channel to something easier to cuss at.

He used to be a powerful man. Now he's a wreck.

Slowly but very, very surely, Sebastian Moran is killing himself.

He can barely even remember why it hurts anymore. Sometimes he'll recall the name—Jim—and then he can just barely see the dark eyes, the lilting smirk, floating just beyond his imagination.

He does remember Sherlock.

Sherlock Holmes. The name he hates. The name he despises with every fiber of his drugged, intoxicated, deteriorating body.

He knows that Sherlock Holmes is dead, and yet he's still waiting.

He can't say what he's waiting for, not even to himself. After all, Holmes _is _dead, just as dead as Jim is. But he's not ready to lie back yet, to push himself over the edge and off of the planet, into hell, which has got to be better than life at this point. And yet he needs to stay. To satiate his burning fury—to _avenge. _To kill one more time. Not kill John Watson, or Greg Lestrade, or Sally Donovan, or any of the other idiots who got in his way so many times, who deserve this fate more than he does.

No. He needs to kill Sherlock Holmes.

Which is absurd, as he so often reminds himself, because Sherlock Holmes is absolutely and irrevocably _gone, _vanished from the face of the planet, rotting away in a cemetery somewhere in London. His name has disappeared from the newspaper headlines long ago—no one cares about him anymore. Perhaps Watson has even moved out of Baker Street, but if so, Moran doesn't know, because he doesn't look at the cameras anymore.

Just sits. Drinks. Smokes. Cleans the goddamn guns.

And maybe that's why he's convinced he has to keep them so meticulously shined, anyways. Maybe he's preparing for the day that Sherlock Holmes does come back—whether in reality or only in the fevered shadows of what Moran's mind has become. Maybe he needs to have all of them ready, the whole fucking _arsenal, _so that he'll be able to blast that detective limb from limb, carve the smirk off of his face with a swift shot, skewer his eyes upon the tips of his most precious silver bullets.

Chances are, at this point—no, _reality is _that those bullets' true, physical destination is going to be inside Moran himself, his skull, his throat, his chest; that he'll pound and pound away at himself until he can finally breathe again, until all of him is the smoke that he's come to rely on.

But reality is irrelevant.

It occurs to him, once or twice, that this is probably, _certainly _what going mad feels like. He wonders whether this was what it looked like in Jim's mind—grimy, misshapen, fogged up and bloodstained and never clear enough to see past the next second. But, even as the thought crosses his mind, he knows how untrue, how impossible it was. Jim Moriarty had a beautiful mind. Cracked, perhaps—yes, cracked, but it was a crack clean down the middle, and every surface inside of his grinning skull was glittering with precision and intention. He was the clean kind of insane, Moran decides, and he, _he's _going the other way, the opposite end of the spectrum—not the kind of madness that makes geniuses and criminals and stunning chaos, but rather that which collapses into grime and dust, which isn't worthy of fear, only disgust, contempt, revulsion.

The days pass in sepia, always long, sometimes so endless that he doesn't even realize he hasn't drunk enough to sleep, and that he's been awake for hours and hours longer than he should, staring into space, lethargic, frozen, his guns long since fallen to the floor.

Yes, it's unquestionable. Unquestionable as he dissolves into nightmares of screams and pleas for mercy and choking on smoke and drowning in liquor and never seeing the sun again, never seeing the lighted darkness of his boss's eyes again, never touching the trigger of a gun. He craves the sweet taste of a bullet on his tongue, thirsts for the fire that will blaze through him before it's all over. That would be gorgeous—only a brief swathe of flame, consuming and darkening all of him, in a bang, a flash of lightning, or perhaps no sound or light at all, only darkness rushing to capsize over him and erase him. This is what he chooses instead—these long sepia days—perhaps because he's a coward, or maybe because he's still waiting, or just possibly both of them together.

Unquestionable.

He is killing himself.

* * *

Three months. The rest of June, July, August. He feels the heat of summer, but never directly, except for when he stumbles out in a half-stupor to limp down to the nearest grocery, to fill his cart with bottles and cigarettes and the food that he never remembers eating. It's not until halfway through September, when cold begins to fill the flat, that it dawns on him how he can't go on like this forever. How he's going to need to give up, to process that Sherlock's never going to come, actually or otherwise.

Halfway through September, however, is also when Sherlock and Mycroft Holmes have convinced themselves that they've eradicated every last bit of Moriarty's web, that there's nothing left, that it's safe for a return to Baker Street.

Halfway through September is when Moran opens his eyes one morning to see a news report flashing across the television screen, colors and noise blaring over him, reflecting in his eyes.

Sherlock Holmes, the announcer says, is back.

His death was a fake. All of it was fake, set up by James Moriarty, but Moriarty is dead now, Holmes himself was witness to the suicide.

The city's hero is back, and now they can rejoice. And rejoice they do—the citizens and the police alike. Even those who don't remember the somewhat obscure detective's death a quarter of a year ago are happy to join in the excitement.

Sebastian Moran, however, does not laugh or celebrate.

He does smile, though, as he reaches for the gun lying on his lap, straightens up and brushes his overgrown hair out of his eyes.

It's finally time.


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N** _Last part! I tried to tie it in to "The Empty House" (the original story, that is), but I'm not really sure how I did with it. _

**Disclaimer** _I don't own Sherlock or any associated characters, events, etc._

* * *

iii.

He doesn't bother to question the impossibility of Holmes's return, mostly because a part of him knew it was going to happen all along. Sherlock Holmes is too smart—has always been too smart, too smart even for Jim Moriarty, and the idea that he could be defeated by such a direct plan was stupid, ridiculous. And, Moran reminds himself, Holmes is also _selfish. _Despite whatever fondness he may harbor for particular people, he's still a psychopath, or a sociopath, or whatever title he gives himself nowadays. He's not the sort of man to lay down his life for others, especially not others as mundane as Watson and Hudson and Lestrade. He's _too damn clever. _

But this… this just might be his one fatal slip-up.

Moran spends nearly an hour just selecting the gun for the job. Practicality isn't a concern—even after doing nothing for a quarter of a year, he knows weapons well, and he'll be able to blast Holmes's brains out with the most dysfunctional of guns. So he chooses the one he'll use on personal preference alone—chooses the one that will be the most satisfying to commit his final murder with. His final _two _murders, that is, because he hasn't forgotten the other part of his plan—as soon as he fires the shot, as soon as he sees blood fly from Holmes's lips and light evaporate from his eyes, Moran will turn the gun around, on the final victim, on himself, and pull the trigger.

Going out with his own gunshot. A final display of skill. It will be just as prideful, he figures, as it will be relaxing.

After a while—far too long, with anxiety ramping up to overcome the euphoria in the back of his mind as the seconds tick away—he finally settles on his weapon of choice. A Fabbri Over-Under shotgun—the most ridiculous thing he owns, undoubtedly. Expensive—he can practically feel the weight of tens of thousands of dollars in his hands as he opens its buckled wooden case, his fingers running over the sleek walnut-and-steel of the magnificent weapon. It's more expensive than anything he'd ever buy for himself, but it wasn't purchased of his own will—no, it was a gift, from Jim, back… before. Moran can still recall the smirk that twisted his boss's thin mouth when he presented the luxurious item, the words murmured under his breath—_"Only a few are made every year. I ordered this one special—thought it was appropriate for the world's greatest sniper." _

He sucks in a quick breath, squeezing his eyes as his fingers curl around the barrel of the graceful weapon. This is it. His revenge. Sherlock Holmes is the man responsible for Jim's death, and so he'll be murdered with a weapon gifted to Moran by the same man. It's perfect.

It really is a beautiful thing, too. The steel is swirled in subtle patterns of brown and blue, and the wood glows with a faintly golden warmth, radiating from the dark gloss. Of course, it's not the best for assassinations—a recreational gun at best—but he'll be able to make it work. He lifts it, balancing it delicately between his fingers like it's made of gold, when it's probably more valuable even than that, and carries it into his bedroom, which he hasn't touched in weeks.

The place is probably the cleanest in the whole flat, if one ignores the layer of silvery dust gracing every surface and giving it the overall impression of abandonment. It's bizarre—incredibly disconcerting, how the place can be so unfamiliar, so unreal when he's been only a few yards away from it all this time.

He paces over to the closet, throwing it open and removing one of the dark jackets hanging inside. It's long—practically an overcoat, though it comes to a halt before his knees. It's one of his most prized articles of clothing, not that he has many—and another of Jim's purchases for him. Made of dark, durable fabric, simple but tough, and with a conveniently sewn pocket on the inside, perfect for hiding an oversized gun, as he does now.

It's not until the gun is in place and the jacket pulled over his shoulders that he reminds himself he needs to be patient. Dashing out like this, with no plan—as tempting as it is, it's also stupid, and he can't afford to be stupid right now. This is his only chance at getting the revenge that he so sorely needs, and he's not going to waste it.

_Think. _He leans against a wall, breathing heavily—_breathing heavily, _just from a bit of excited heart elevation. Damn it. These months have allowed him to slip out of perfect control; he's less than fit now, whereas before he'd been one of the most powerful and agile men in the world. He's destroyed himself, with smoke and alcohol—_smoke. _Even now, his lungs ache for a cigarette, but he can't afford to cloud his mind with the dusty spices right now. He needs to think. Concentrate. He'll only have to make it through one assassination—_one single assassination; _he'll manage. And, after that, he won't have to worry about his physical or mental state anymore. He'll blast his own brains out, stop his heart before his drugs get the chance to do it for him.

CCTV, he reminds himself. Cameras. Jim has cameras focused on 221b.

So he paces to one of the laptop computers strewn about the flat—this one perched on a table in the corner of his room. It's still plugged in, and even after weeks and week of disuse, a small blue light pulses on the side, signaling that it's standing at attention, ready for operation. He wipes off the dust ghosting the lid, resulting in a backup of grey fluff against the side of his hand. It's hard to believe that the technology is going to be fully functional after being dormant for so long, but the screen glows to life as usual as he flips it open, clicking into the desktop. The operating system is top-notch, like everything else owned even in part by Jim Moriarty, and moves swiftly as he messes about with the connected and linked devices, finally locating the feed from the cameras in Baker Street.

A small, black-and-white video box flickers to life, and his breath flies from his lips, his eyes stretching wide enough for the light of the screen to reflect in them. There he is—_there he is. _Sherlock Holmes. Moran's stomach curls in repulsion at the mere sight of him—lying back on the couch like it's any other day, like three months haven't passed. He's clean-shaven, looking no worse for the wear after his absence. There's no sign of John Watson, which is probably good, because Moran's organs are rearing up in enough spite from the sight of the single man. It takes him a long moment to realize that his nails are cutting into the emaciated flesh of his palms.

_How dare he? _How dare Sherlock Holmes slip back into 221b Baker Street, looking as comfortable and regular as always, when he, Sebastian Moran, lies here in his flat, a starved, destroyed wreck—and Moriarty is called the villain, he and Moran are called heartless, when it's so clearly Holmes who is truly isolated from emotion, truly impenetrable, truly a monster.

_You are less than human. _

He doesn't know whether he's thinking to Holmes or to himself. He doesn't know much anything at all—the sight of the detective blinds and deafens him, so that all he can do is stand up, his legs shaking with excess adrenaline, stroke the cool form of the Italian gun under his jacket, and turn to the window.

It's late evening. He figures that he's far too energetic for that, but, then again, he hasn't really been going along with solar cycles lately, operating instead on his own sleep schedule that depended more on his alcohol intake than the position of the sun and moon.

He glances at the computer clock. Nine o' clock.

Two hours. That's what he promises himself. In two hours, he'll leave the flat, go to Baker Street. It's relatively unguarded, as he and Moriarty have found out from their ventures there—he'll be able to let himself up, break in with a simple enough lock pick. Then he'll go inside, shoot the detective where he sits, and turn the gun on himself, before the police can show up.

It will be perfect.

Two hours later, he's stepping outside, sucking in a lungful of the sharp, cool autumn air. It's entirely pitch-black, but he's used to that after months in darkness, and he sees as well as ever, the sidewalk before him illuminated dark silver. The gun's metal is warm against his chest, and he steps along purposefully, placing one foot in front of the other. He could call a cab, but Baker Street is within walking distance, and he wants every centimeter of this journey to be executed with his own power.

He checked the cameras again just before he left the flat—well, _checked _is the word; in truth, he never looked away, but in fact watched for the full two hours, barely blinking, his knuckles growing whiter and his breath coming faster with every second. Holmes barely moved an inch—only yawned once, turned over to go to sleep. Uncharacteristic, but of course he'd be exhausted, after everything. Even the small movements proved irritating, elevating Moran's heart rate, and now everything's boiling inside of him, fierce and powerful, and he's never been so ready to kill in all of his life.

The moon shines vaguely overhead, half-obscured by the London smog, but he pays it no attention. It doesn't deserve any of his attention, not when he has a much more powerful being to extinguish. His feet move steadily, and it's only perhaps half an hour later that he arrives at Baker Street's door, his ears and fingers numb from the cold but his inside already frozen, uncaring about the added chill.

He slips a lock pick from his pocket and sidles up next to the door, breaking into the door with a few swift motions. He casts a couple of glances over his shoulder, making sure that there's no one watching, no one to phone the police in suspicion. The streets are deserted, though, even more so than the usual at this time of night—or perhaps he's just forgotten what the norm is, as wrapped up in himself as he has been for the past few months.

Inside of the building is also dark and quiet, but several degrees warmer. His exposed skin begins to sting as the heat hits it, and he clenches his teeth together, refusing to acknowledge the pain. The door closes almost soundlessly behind him, and then he moves over to the staircase, carefully placing each foot in place. He doesn't make a sign as he loops around it, moving up to the door. His hands are shaking now, his breath coming just a bit too fast—this is it, he reminds himself with a spark of glee, this is it, Holmes has less than a minute to live, and he himself barely more… it's beautiful. Perfect. His lips curve into a smile, and the expression feels distant, foreign on his face. Wonderful, though. He feels _alive, _perhaps because he's on the very edge of his existence, and such a thing fuels him, fuels him as he moves closer to the door, slipping the gun out and assuming a firing grip on it, his finger just outside of the trigger guard as he ghosts into the room.

His eyes find the shape of the couch almost immediately, and the long form stretched across it—barely visible in the blackness of the drawn curtains. Damn, so he won't be able to see the look on Holmes's face… then again, though, he doesn't intend to let the detective know what hit him. He'll die in his sleep—something about that prospect is bitterly satisfying, even more so than if Holmes was aware of his own demise.

He steps closer, his feet soundless on the floor. The nose of his gun dips forward, and he raises it slowly, not having to line his eye up to it—he's a meter away from Holmes, not even; this is the easiest shot of his life, and the most satisfying, as well. The contours of the weapon are lithe and sleek under his fingers, his heart hammering against his ribcage, and then he's doing it, applying his finger to the trigger, pressing down lightly, delicately, beautifully.

The blast is deafening, and his heart jumps in perfect synchronicity with it.

His eardrums throb, and he knows that Watson must have been awoken by it, if he's even here, and probably Hudson, downstairs, and this is it, he has to turn the gun on himself before there's time for him to be caught, to die in a much more inefficient and tedious way.

But first he's going to touch the body—just touch it, feel the blood, the triumph that will surely come with the hot, dark liquid. His feet carry him forward, even as he hears footsteps on the stairs, surely Watson or Hudson or even someone else, someone from the street—did he lock the door behind him? He can't remember now—and he's reaching out, for—

_Pillows—_

Fucking pillows, that's what it is, because when he draws his hand back, it's full of feathers, and he feels like he might scream, or fire a shot into the windows for the pure satisfaction of shattering glass, because _god fucking damn it, _Holmes one-upped him, again, _again, _and his legs are folding underneath him even before the shouts fill his ears, the lights flip on and a voice is demanding that he lower his weapon.

Three months ago, he could kill every damn policeman that's suddenly filling the room without a second thought. But now his insides are soured with defeat and lethargy, and the gun practically pulls itself from his hands, clattering to the ground, just in time for somebody to come up behind him, grasp his wrists, pull them behind him and click handcuffs around them. He hasn't felt the metallic bite of cuffs for years and years, but it's as familiar as if he was last arrested minutes ago. He lets his head fall, spitting on the ground in pure anger and watching as his saliva splatters the grip of the gun, which is resting innocently on the floor, as flawlessly formed as ever.

"Anderson," a quiet, demure voice murmurs, right up next to his ear. It's deep, velvety, and far, far too familiar. "Or should I say Mr. Moran?"

He can't form words, so he snarls instead—a low, animal noise deep in his throat as he looks up, meets the cold, smirking eyes of Sherlock Holmes. The detective moves to stand in front of him, looking down with incredibly frustrating calm.

"I would have thought you were beyond that," Holmes comments, folding his hands behind his voice. "A video loop, tricking James Moriarty's right-hand man? Embarrassing, almost."

"Don't tease him." London accent—Lestrade's voice. "Get him on his feet, let's go."

"Oh, but you have to give me a moment," Holmes replies with a chuckle. "It's been so long, hasn't it…? I will admit that you did a spectacular job of fooling me… Anderson, what a lovely disguise. Perhaps I just wanted to believe that there were idiots all around me." He begins to pace, and Moran's head drops again, so that all he can see are the finely polished shoes, striding back and forth, back and forth. "There were, I suppose. I still came out on top, don't you forget that. Wishing to avenge your lovely boss… sorry that I just couldn't quite afford for you to succeed. But did you really think I'd miss such an essential part of Moriarty's web? I know much more than you ever suspected, you poor little man."

"Leave him be. We're going." A hand grips Moran's wrists, forcing them painfully together, and heaves him to his feet. He stands with his shoulders slumped, still not looking up, refusing to respond. _To hell with you, Sherlock Holmes. To hell with you. _

"Perfectly fine, yes, off with you. Enjoy prison, Mr. Moran, if that's what they so choose for you…"

And then he's being turned around, pulled forcefully off, tripping over his own feet. His head is light, but he manages to keep walking, not speaking, not struggling. He can't believe this. He can't believe that his final attempt, his final assassination, was thwarted. And not only was Holmes's life spared, but also his own, god _damn _it, now he's going to have to live, and if he is going to jail, then they're going to keep a horribly close eye on him, they won't let him have weapons… he'll find a way, he will _have _to. Because he's not living. Not anymore. Not after this.

The wind whips his face as he exits, and the blare of a siren fills his ears—maybe it's been there all along, muffled by the walls of the house, but his mind isn't fully functioning right now; it's not his fault if he's missing obvious things.

_It's not his fault, it's not his fault, it's not his fault…_

Nausea, rising deep up inside of him. His legs are shaking by the time that someone's shoving his shoulder, forcing him into a police cruiser, and he slumps against the door, staring out into the street, into the dancing reflection of red and blue and white lights on the rain-stained road.

He has failed, and it's over now.


End file.
